Paradise Lost
by NuitSansEtoiles
Summary: Faced with a terrible tragedy, Hermione takes drastic actions. EWE.


**Title:** Paradise Lost (1/1)  
**Rating:** R  
**Warnings:** Very dark, character death  
**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine. No infrigement is intended. Alexander Pope's "Essay on Criticism" is not mine either.  
**Summary:** Faced with a terrible tragedy, Hermione takes drastic actions.  
**Author Notes:** For the "Shine a Light on Draco and Hermione" exchange at dmhgficexhange. EWE.

* * *

**Paradise Lost**

"_A little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;  
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:  
There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,  
And drinking largely sobers us again."_

- Alexander Pope, _An Essay on Criticism_ (1709)

She will never become used to this place.

The musty, dank air, saturated with death and insanity suffocates her, and her every breath is short and rasping. She shivers with the biting, piercing cold. She is harshly reminded that hope and happiness are foreign words here as a ghastly specter in black glides by, and she feels the horribly familiar cold seep into the very marrow of her bones. Sparsely lined torches cast an eerie glow onto the stone walls and the two lone figures standing in the corridor full of empty shadows.

She grasps the cool iron of the bars separating her from the other figure.

"Granger," the man on the other side says quietly.

Granger. Her name. She savors it for a moment and does not reply.

"Hermione," he whispers uncertainly.

Something seems to break within her. Hermione. Hermione. Hermione. She crashes hard onto reality, and she turns to look at the man calling her name. His usual impeccably styled platinum blond hair is in disarray. His steel gray eyes are sunken, and the dark circles under his eyes are heavy. His skin looks paler than usual.

"Malfoy," she says and is surprised by the lack of intonation in her voice.

"They're almost ready," he says solemnly. "Are you?"

She bites her lip and hesitates. Slowly, she nods a quick, curt nod, nearly imperceptible. But he sees and smiles lightly.

"I never thought it would be you," he says gently.

She looks at him quizzically.

"On the other side of the bars, I mean," he explains, unable to keep the sadness from his voice at bay.

When he leaves, the heavy metal door at the end of the corridor clangs shut loudly, slicing through the thick silence and resonating against the walls.

She laughs a mirthless, hollow laugh. _Well, neither did she_.

_One year ago…_

It all started with a joyous celebration.

The cacophony of overlapping voices filled the sumptuously decorated grand ballroom. Men and women in elegant formalwear congregated in small groups, catching up, making small talk and sharing in the goodwill of the season. Champagne flutes clinked and laughter roared. Music somehow managed to be heard above all else, and couples littered the dance floor. An enormous Christmas tree stood on the side, towering above the crowd. Magical cherubs fluttered above, darting from group to group and causing mischief. A magnificent crystal chandelier glittered on the ceiling amidst decorative balloons and stars. The festivities were well underway.

Soon, the music stopped and distinct clinks sounded, bringing the crowd's attention to the small makeshift stage at one end of the room.

"I hope everyone's having fun!" shouted Ron with a glass of champagne in hand, his speech somewhat slurred.

The guests cheered.

"As you know," he continued once the partygoers quieted down, "midnight is approaching! You know what this means? It means that the first Christmas since the war is finally here!"

Again, the crowd cheered.

"But let's not forget who made this all possible!" he said, smiling and turning back to one member of the crowd. "Give it up for my best mate, Harry Potter!"

Harry seemed to recoil and want to disappear. A crimson blush tinted his cheeks, but with smiling faces, Hermione and Ginny each grabbed him by an arm and threw him up on stage to the thunderous applause of those below. Ron did not seem to notice Harry's discomfort as he patted his friend on the back, a little harder than necessary in his half-drunken daze, which caused Harry to stumble a step forward.

"Don't forget to congratulate him on finally receiving his Auror's license!" shouted Ron, beaming with pride as he watched Harry turn a brighter shade of red.

With an awkward acknowledgment to his excited guests, Harry hurriedly stepped down as Ron announced that there would be a surprise outside. The crowd gathered outside the hotel, where a beautiful display of fireworks, courtesy of George Weasley, was exploding in the night sky. While the partygoers marveled at the fireworks, Harry, Ron and Hermione thought of Fred, who should have been a part of tonight's celebrations. The fireworks, to them, were a tribute to those who gave their lives for the cause and a symbol of the hope for prosperity and peace in the future. The show ended with an exploding "Happy Christmas" in the sky as a clock somewhere chimed twelve times. The party would not end until at least an hour later, but Hermione could not stay. She turned to her two best friends.

"I have to go," she said urgently as she walked back inside to gather her belongings.

Her friends understood.

"How are they, Hermione?" asked Harry with concern.

She sighed. "Physically, they're fine," she said quietly so that only Harry and Ron could hear. "But… they still don't remember me. I gave them a potion last time, but I don't know if it's going to work. Memory restoration is an extremely complex branch of magic."

When Hermione had found her parents in Australia after Voldemort had been defeated, she had tried a reversal spell to restore their old memories, but to her horror, it had not worked. Now, months later, after extensive research, she had created a potion that had the potential to undo the memory modifications, but she was still unsure as to what exactly had caused the spell to go wrong in the first place. In any case, the potion had an incubation period of thirty-six hours, and the time was up, so it was with a kind of excited apprehension that Hermione decided to check on her parents' progress. Besides, Wendell and Monica Wilkins had already invited her to spend the night on Christmas Eve, having taken a liking to this strange girl who constantly visited them.

Even now, the thought of her parents and the very real possibility that they would never be the same again haunted her.

"Good luck, Hermione," said Harry sincerely, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "Happy Christmas."

"You too, Harry," she said, hugging him.

Harry returned to the party and Ginny after a nod and a reassuring smile.

"Be careful, Hermione," Ron said. "It's late. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No," she said firmly. "It's all right, Ron. And you're drunk, aren't you? Make sure you go home with Harry, safe and sound. Do you hear me?"

Ron grumbled something that sounded like an affirmative.

"Good," she said. "Happy Christmas, Ron."

"Happy Christmas, love," he replied.

He kissed her firmly on the lips, and Hermione could taste the alcohol on his breath. She soon pulled away.

"Stay with Harry," she warned again, pulling on her coat and moving back outside to Disapparate.

When Hermione Apparated into the peaceful street of her childhood, her heart thumped violently against her ribcage, and she felt her shaking fingers becoming numb. She could hear the distant music and laughter of the celebration a few houses down, and she took a deep breath, facing the silent house before her. The lights were still on, she noted with relief as she approached the door. With another shaky sigh, she pushed a button and the doorbell rang inside the house.

"Miss Granger!" said the woman who opened the door, her smile radiant.

"I'm sorry I'm late," said Hermione, feeling the knife burying itself into her heart as she watched her own mother calling her by her last name with no recognition in her eyes.

"It's all right, don't worry," said her mother, stepping back and opening the door wider for her. "Come in, come in. Mr. Wilkins has been waiting for you."

Hermione smiled tightly as she stepped into the house. A tall, balding man with glasses appeared through the doorway to the kitchen.

"Happy Christmas, Da—Mr. Wilkins," said Hermione, a tiny glimmer of hope resurfacing when she saw her father's good-humored face.

"Happy Christmas, dear," he said, pulling her into a hug. "I'm so glad you decided to come. We almost thought you forgot about us, Miss Granger."

The disappointment dealt her an unimaginable blow. She felt winded, as if her stomach had dropped to her feet. Her father did not remember either. The potion had failed. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but they were left unshed.

"Come with me," her father said. "We've got some eggnog. You must be cold from walking all this way."

He didn't even know that she was a witch. Hermione quickly blinked back the tears and forced a smile.

"It's all right, thank you," she said. "I don't want to impose. It's already late and I…"

"Nonsense," interrupted her mother, who had followed the pair into the kitchen. "You don't have to be so polite with us. You're like a daughter to us."

The knife in her heart twisted at these words. Hermione could do nothing but smile bitterly at the irony.

"Now sit," her father said. "Have some eggnog. It'll warm you right up."

Everything within her screamed for her to leave, to run back to her flat and to unleash all of her pent up anguish and frustration. Instead, she obeyed and sat quietly, thanking them for the delicious eggnog and affirming that yes, it really did hit the spot.

Hermione drank as quickly as she could without seeming rude and half-heartedly carried on their conversations. When she drained her cup, she stood up quickly, making vague excuses about having to leave.

"I'm sorry," she apologized for the umpteenth time as she grappled clumsily for her coat. "I really wish I could stay, but…"

Her mother made a grab for her arm as she reentered their living room.

"Are you all right, dear?" she asked. "Why are you in such a hurry? You promised to stay overnight."

"Really," Hermione began, "I can't… it's… I have this… function… that I have to go to early tomorrow morning."

She had never been a good liar.

"You know you can tell us anything, Miss Granger," said her father in a soothing tone.

But she couldn't. Not anymore. She looked at them with sadness and shook her head.

"I have to go," she said, unable to look at them now that all hope has gone for their recovery. The potion had been a last resort, and since it had failed…

Her hand was already on the doorknob when her mother suddenly called out to her. "Wait."

A chill ran down her spine. It was not so much _what_ her mother said but _how_ she had said it. A curious intonation, a light quaver in her voice… something was different about her. Hermione turned around slowly, her hands trembling. She did not dare to believe, to hope. Her mother had an expression of disbelief, but it was something in her eyes that sent Hermione's heart racing. Could it be? A spark of recognition?

"M—Mom?" said Hermione in a small voice, steeling her heart for disappointment.

There was a pause that seemed to have stretched on for eternity while Hermione watched her mother uncertainly, her insides freezing in anxious anticipation.

"Hermione," said her mother softly, as if in shock. "What's… what's going on?"

"Mom!" exclaimed Hermione through uncontrollable sobs.

Before she knew it, her arms were in a vice-like grip around her mother, never wanting to let go as she sobbed into Mrs. Granger's soft, curly hair. What did make her release her mother was the reappearance of her father through the entryway to the kitchen. The potion must have just been a bit slower than she had thought, but for once in her life, she didn't care about the academic aspects and could only bask in her blissful happiness. It was unreal… her parents were finally returned to her! She smiled, wiping away the tears that continued to gush from her eyes.

"What happened, Hermione?" asked Mr. Granger, as he held his daughter. "It feels like I haven't seen you in a long time, but somehow… I—I know I have."

"I'll explain it all to you as soon as I... as soon as I get a hold of myself," said Hermione through tears, fighting for control over her overpowering emotions.

She never got the chance.

Because at that moment, the door was blasted open by a yet unseen force and all three Grangers were slammed against the wall. Hermione heard a sickening crack and felt blinding pain at the back of her skull as it collided against the wall. She slid to the ground, and her vision blackened for a few seconds, but she soon recovered. She could see five hooded figures towering above her with horribly familiar masks. She quickly withdrew her wand but could not use it.

"_Petrificus Totalus_," said a chilling voice beside her.

The curse did not waste a single second to take effect as Hermione found herself becoming rigid and utterly immobile. She looked on with horror as the hooded figures moved to crowd around her parents while her wand fell from her grip and rolled away from her reach. She tried desperately to move her limbs as her mother screamed, but her efforts were in vain. _Finite Incantatem_, _Finite Incantatem_… Without a wand or her voice, her magic was erratic and weak, and it took her several tries to finally break free from the Body-Bind Curse, but it was too late. One of the cloaked figures had seen her and dragged her off from the floor by her hair. Her parents' bloodcurdling screams and the laughter of their assailants had, in the meanwhile, continued to ring in her ears, incessant with her own pain. Yet, she was utterly helpless as she fought against her attacker, who was much bigger than she was.

"You want to watch, Mudblood?" the man growled in her ear and thrust her face into the violent melee.

Tears were blurring her vision, but she still could see what was happening much too clearly. Her parents were held forcefully by their wrists, pinned behind their backs. The floor was stained crimson from blood and the hooded figures were laughing as they carved something with knives on her parents' naked torsos.

"NO!" Hermione shrieked until she was hoarse, but even through her adrenaline-infused struggles, the man did not let her go, laughing at her vain attempts.

Her mother's gaze turned to her, almost calmly. Hermione was screaming, she knew, but she suddenly felt as if she had become detached from the scene, become a distant spectator watching the gruesomeness unfold. A buzzing filled her ears, and she did not even know what she was screaming. The world itself seemed to be falling away and disappearing until all that was left were her parents and the mass of black surrounding them. She was numb. Without warning, the man holding her grabbed her by the throat and bashed her head against the wall. Though the pain was excruciating, she barely felt it as she sunk to the floor.

The last thing she saw before everything became black was a blinding flash of green light.

***

Hermione awoke to an endless sea of intense white. She felt sore everywhere, and for a long moment, she was in a daze, wondering where she was and if she was dead. There were voices, she was sure, but they were distorted, their words utterly indiscernible. She blinked a few times until her surroundings slowly came into focus and the buzzing in her ears silenced.

"She's awake," a voice said by her side.

"Hermione, can you hear me?" asked another voice.

She moaned weakly in reply.

Someone was laughing, and Hermione found herself being wrapped in someone's teary embrace, but she felt too weak to do anything but lie limply. When he pulled back, she recognized a familiar pair of clear blue eyes, sparkling with joy and tears. His red hair was shining in the blinding white light.

"Ron," she mouthed, a slight smile on her parched lips.

"I'm so glad you're okay, Hermione," said Ron, stroking her hair absentmindedly.

A pair of bright green eyes now peered over her.

"Harry," Hermione managed to croak out. "What happened?"

Her memory was still frustratingly foggy.

"You've been out for the past three days," answered Harry softly. "You're now in St. Mungo's."

"Why am I here?" she asked, eyebrows furrowed.

Harry and Ron exchanged an uncomfortable look.

"There—there was an attack," said Ron simply. "You barely made it out alive."

"An attack? How…"

Hermione became silent. The memories were flooding back to her. The hooded cloaks, the masks, the chilling laughter, the blood, and… oh, no…

She jumped up from her bed, her eyes wide in horror. Her friends vainly tried to coax her and push her back down.

"My parents!" she cried out, dread squeezing her heart painfully. "What's happened to them?"

The look that then passed between Harry and Ron confirmed her worst fears.

For a moment, all three were paralyzed, one in shock and the other two in apprehension. Hermione was breathing heavily, nearly hyperventilating. Slowly at first, Hermione began shaking. It started with her shoulders, then her hands, and finally, her entire body was convulsing with her sobs. Dead… Both her parents were dead… She pounded the mattress hopelessly.

"NO!" she screamed. "You're _lying_! It can't be true! It just _can't_!"

"I'm so sorry, Hermione," said Ron as he pulled her into another hug.

While Ron continued to whisper in comfort to Hermione, she was crying freely against his shoulder. Harry squeezed her hand, his eyes cast down towards his own shoes and his expression solemn. Gradually, Hermione quieted down, and she fell back against the bed, her eyes watching the white ceiling as if in a stupor.

"The potion worked," she whispered softly, her gaze unmoved.

"They—they _remembered_?" asked Harry, his jaw dropped.

Hermione swallowed forcibly and nodded slightly.

Ron squeezed her hand. "We'll catch them, Hermione," he said firmly. "We won't let them get away with this… with what they've done to you."

"Do you remember who they were? What did they look like?" asked Harry.

"Death Eaters," replied Hermione simply.

"All the Death Eaters are in prison," said Ron. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Hermione jumped to a sitting position again. "I saw them with their masks and their cloaks! After the battle at Hogwarts, how can anyone not remember what a Death Eater looks like?"

"But that's just not possible," said Harry. "Voldemort's dead. They are his _followers_. There's no reason for their existence without Voldemort."

"Maybe they're following a new Dark Lord now!" said Hermione in exasperation. "I swear that's what I saw! Face it, Harry. The world is still licking its wounds. Killing Voldemort doesn't mean that all the problems are solved. It's only the beginning. You of all people should know this."

"I _do_ know this!" protested Harry. "But if there were a new Dark Lord, why would he copy Voldemort?"

Hermione groaned in frustration, and a hand reached over to rub her neck in agitation. But the moment her fingertips touched the skin on her neck, she froze, her eyes wide. She ran her fingertips down the length of her neck slowly, with shaking fingers.

"G—give me a mirror," she demanded, her voice hoarse.

"Er… m—maybe you should rest, Hermione," said Ron with worry.

"Give me a mirror," she repeated with teeth clenched. "Now."

Uncertainly, Ron reached over to grab it after a futile pleading look to Harry and handed Hermione a small mirror. She snatched it from his hands and moved her hair back. What she saw reflected against the cool surface made her gasp in horror. She absentmindedly tried to put the mirror back on the nightstand, but it fell over the edge and shattered into thousands of glittering pieces on the floor. Hermione didn't even notice. Anger and hatred boiled up red-hot from the pit of her stomach.

The letters were backwards, but the word was unmistakable. She had been branded. Like a head of cattle.

The word "Mudblood" had been etched in violent strokes and charred flesh.

"You still don't believe me?" she asked, her voice near hysterical.

"Hermione," Harry began in the most soothing way possible, but he was interrupted.

"Just shut up, then!" shrieked Hermione. "Get out! You too, Ron! Get out! OUT!"

Her two best friends obeyed but not without a last backwards glance. When the door finally shut behind them, Hermione curled up and gripped the edges of her pillow until her knuckles turned white.

If they wouldn't help her, then she would help herself.

***

After her release from St. Mungo's, Hermione wasted no time. There was one person she was sure would know something about the attack, whether he had participated or not. So it was no surprise that she was standing in an all too familiar hall, impatiently awaiting the arrival of its owner. Soon enough, he came sauntering down the stairs, an annoyed sneer on his face.

"Look, Granger," he drawled, "if this is about those house-elves again—"

Hermione glared darkly. "No, Malfoy," she said sharply. "This is far more serious."

"Oh?" A mocking eyebrow quirked and he smirked. "More important than _spew_? I'm intrigued."

By this time, Hermione was shaking with rage.

"How _dare_ you act this way, you sick bastard?" she screamed. "You and your friends _murdered_ my parents!"

The smirk was gone to be replaced by a look of utter shock.

"_What_?" he asked in disbelief.

She took a step closer, seething. "Don't play innocent with me," she said. "You can't fool me, you and your _Death Eater_ friends."

"You're accusing_ me_?" he yelled back. "I don't do that anymore. And what is this about Death Eaters? Didn't _your_ friends put them in prison?"

"Well, you tell me," she bit back.

He sighed.

"I don't know what you want from me, Granger," he said, "but don't make me your scapegoat. I didn't do it."

"I don't believe you," said Hermione, her voice low.

"I had _nothing_ to do with it. _It wasn't me_."

"Then who was it?"

At this question, Malfoy pursed his lips and looked away. Hermione decided that he looked uncomfortable and her eyes narrowed.

"What are you hiding from me, Malfoy?" she asked. "Tell me who those people were!"

"Why should I?" His voice was vicious and his gray eyes were smoldering.

Hermione took a deep breath to calm herself, but it only worked marginally. "I know they were just a bunch of filthy, lowly Muggles to you," she said. "Hell, you're probably glad to be two Muggles fewer in the world. But they were my _parents_. They were tortured and killed right before my eyes. They were _mutilated_! The only reason I was probably left alive was so that I would be able to suffer the consequences of _their_ actions. I want to bring them to justice. Wouldn't you? Have a heart, Malfoy!"

His expression was impassive. For a long moment, he was silent.

"If I tell you, they'd come after me," he finally said.

"You're a coward!" she said angrily. "Fine! I'll have the Ministry provide you with 24-hour protection!"

"No deal," he said simply, watching her intently.

Hermione seethed. "Then what _do_ you want?"

There was no hesitation in his voice when he stated his conditions. "First, I want you to stop lobbying me about my house-elves. Then, I want you to cancel the next raid for Dark objects in the Manor and all future raids." He paused for her reaction.

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. These conditions were not outrageous, though they did not please her in the slightest. But if this was what it took…

"Fine," she said resentfully. "I'll see that your conditions are met. Anything else?"

"Oh, yes," he said casually. "I'll also have that 24-hour protection that you've so kindly offered."

"I'll have a team of Aurors posted around the Manor for your protection, as you wish," said Hermione with a sigh. "Now tell me everything you know."

He looked fidgety and decidedly uncomfortable. "Well, er…" he said. "They're not Death Eaters. I mean… they're not really followers of the Dark Lord. That is, they're not… agreeing with what he did."

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Hermione impatiently, her arms crossed over her chest. "Get to the point Malfoy. Are they supporters of Muggleborns and Muggles? Is that why they murdered my parents in cold blood?"

Malfoy shot her a dark glare. "They think the Dark Lord was too preoccupied with his own selfish search for immortality that he neglected the purification of the Wizarding World, which should have been the main objective."

"Oh," murmured Hermione, and she could not deny that she was just a little surprised by the answer. "And how do you know about this?"

He rubbed the back of his head, and his gaze quickly darted away. "They, er…" he said tentatively. "They tried to… recruit me… sort of… But I said no."

Hermione released a short, mirthless chuckle. "Because you're noble and good now?"

His eyes smoldered, but he said nothing. Did he think it did not dignify a response? She almost had to laugh at the very thought.

"Give me their names," she ordered curtly instead.

"I… well," he began slowly, hesitantly, "I don't know everyone involved. I mean, they're not even an official group or anything like that. And only one of them came to see me about it. They're just a group of people with… a… common interest."

"So what, are they a group of vigilantes, looking out for the good of the Wizarding World?" she asked contemptuously, but she did not wait for a response before she said, "Tell me who it was."

It appeared as if he were fighting an inner battle until he finally uttered the name very quietly, but Hermione heard.

"Marcus Flint."

For a long moment, Hermione did make a sound. Her face was utterly impassive as she stared at a point above his shoulder.

Finally, she said in a cold, emotionless tone, "Thank you for your cooperation. I will make sure that you are compensated and your demands are met."

With these words, she disappeared through the door, and it clicked shut calmly behind her.

***

Someone knocked loudly against the door to her tiny office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, yanking her unceremoniously out of her reverie. Hermione quickly made her way to the door, and when she opened it, a pair of tired green eyes met her curious gaze.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," said Harry quietly with his hand against the doorframe. He was leaning against it and breathing hard, almost as if he had run to her office.

"What?" Hermione said apprehensively.

"Flint," he said. "We—we have to let him go. There's no evidence, and the law—"

"_What_? Did you interrogate him? How can you just let him go? Malfoy said it was him!"

"That's not enough evidence to arrest him and you know it. He's a scumbag, but he's not telling us anything. We're going to have to let him go in an hour. There's nothing we can do. I'm so sorry."

For a moment that seemed to have lasted an eternity, Hermione was utterly silent, her lips set in a hard line and her eyes darkened.

"So that's it?" she said much too lightly as rage and anguish scorched and tore at her insides. "He's just going to walk like nothing happened?"

"We couldn't find anything," said Harry apologetically. "There are no grounds for an arrest. If we bring this case before the Wizengamot, there's no way we can win."

"Is he still in the interrogation rooms?" asked Hermione.

"Well, yes," he replied. "But it won't be for long. We can't hold him there anymore."

"Would you mind if I asked him a few questions?" she asked almost too casually.

Harry searched her impassive face as if he were suspicious of something. Finally, he said, "Well, you won't get anything out of him either."

Hermione almost smiled. "We'll see," she said. "Thanks, Harry, for keeping me up to date. I'll take it from here."

"You'll be all right, Hermione?" asked Harry, watching her intensely.

"Of course," she answered, looking away.

With a last glance, Harry nodded and walked away.

As soon as Harry had gone, Hermione slipped out of the door and made her way to the interrogation rooms in lowest level of the Ministry. These rooms were always disconcerting. The halls were narrow and their complex, serpentine shape seemed to create a maze underground, perhaps all the more intimidating to the suspects who were brought in periodically. Hermione walked with sure steps across the uneven stone floor until she came to a stop by a heavy metal door with the number six emblazoned in red. She tapped the doorknob with her wand quickly, and it unlocked, granting her entrance. She felt her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she pulled the door open.

A single metal table and two chairs were placed in the room. Flint sat at the end of the room, a contemptuous sneer on his face as his black eyes calmly watched her enter the room. The door clanked closed loudly behind her. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Marcus Flint," she said coldly. "It's been a while."

"Hermione Granger," he said with a smirk. "They still let your kind run around here? You'd think they would've learned something by now."

Hermione felt the rage boiling up, but instead, she said coolly, "Let's not forget which side won the war. Now, why don't you tell me what you were doing from midnight to 2 a.m. on Christmas."

He sighed and rolled his eyes mockingly. "Saint Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, already asked me that," he said in mock exasperation. "Even the half-bloods won't talk to the Mudbloods now?"

"Answer the question," she snapped.

He shrugged nonchalantly and leaned back against his chair. "I was celebrating Christmas with friends at my house," he said, staring at the ceiling.

"Who were you with?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"Friends," he said evasively, his little black eyes dancing in glee.

"Well," she countered, "if you don't tell me who, there is no way for me to check your alibi, and I would have to assume that you're lying to me."

"You have no proof." He did not even have to grace to look worried.

It was Hermione's turn to smirk. "Are you implying that you've done something that would require proof?" she asked.

This seemed to have wiped off the smirk from his face. "No," he said but did not elaborate.

Understanding that she now had the upper hand, Hermione found the perfect opportunity to press her issue. "So who were these friends you were celebrating with?" she asked. "If you tell me, I might believe your alibi, and you'd be free to go."

It was only a half truth, but it worked. Flint was cornered, or at least, he felt that way, and he was beginning to slip. She could see the alarm behind his eyes, as if he was weighing his options.

"Montague," he finally said, as if it took an enormous amount of effort. "I was celebrating Christmas with Montague and his family."

"At his house?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," he said, shrugging and attempting to appear unaffected.

"But you just told me you were celebrating at _your_ house," she said, smirking widely.

The panic was now visible. "You heard wrong," he amended quickly. "I know I said it was at his house."

Hermione slammed her hands on the table, leaning into Flint, her expression serious. "We're not playing this game anymore," she said, her voice low. "What were you _really_ doing at one in the morning on Christmas?"

"_Celebrating Christmas_," he answered firmly, each word enunciated.

"By murdering innocent Muggles for your sick enjoyment?" she retorted.

There was a short pause. "I don't know what you're talking about."

To Hermione, it did not sound convincing enough. She could not understand why he could sit there so calmly after knowingly committing torture and murder. Why would he deny everything? Did he subconsciously feel that it was wrong? Wouldn't he want to preach his neo-Death Eater philosophy? She could not stand how he could be so carefree about it. She felt physically sick. She hated him with every fiber of her being, for what he represented, for what he had done, and for how he was reacting to his crime. She was seething.

"Are you going to deny that you and your group of Death Eaters came into my parents' house on _Christmas_ and murdered them in cold blood?" she asked in disbelief, so enraged she was shaking. "Are you going to deny torturing them, carving 'filth' on their stomachs? Are you going to deny carving 'Mudblood' on _my neck_, you sick bastard?"

She pulled back her hair to reveal the angry crimson scar.

He looked away and did not respond.

"Answer me when I'm talking to you!" she screamed.

"I didn't do it," he said, glaring at her darkly.

She whipped out her wand, digging its sharp tip under his chin. "Want to try again?" she asked, her voice rough and low.

He stared straight into her eyes. "Mudblood," he spat.

"Wrong answer."

Her mother's screams were screeching in her ears, her heart was being torn apart all over again. She was breathing hard as she stared at Flint's sneering face. Her blood boiled as dug the tip of her wand deeper into the skin. White-hot hatred blared within her, suffocating her, blinding her. Tears blurred her vision. She wanted to cause him the same pain that he had caused her. She wanted him to scream, to beg for mercy. She wanted to destroy him.

"_Crucio_." The curse was wrenched from her lips before she was conscious of it.

He fell out of his chair with loud clanks and thumps, and he was writhing on the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs. Seething, Hermione watched. The steady flow of pure power within her was intoxicating. Yet, she derived little satisfaction from his agony.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough. It just wasn't enough. He still had no idea.

"M—Make it… stop!" he gasped out. "I—I was… there… but… it—it… wasn't m—my idea!"

Hermione lifted the curse. "Then whose was it?" she asked, venom dripping from her voice.

He gasped for breath, clutching the wall beside him. "It was—it was… Nott," he said, gulping for air. "Theodore Nott."

For a moment, she said nothing, watching him clutch his sides and take shaky breaths.

"You're pathetic, you sick fuck," she finally spat before turning away.

Right before she reached the door, she heard him murmur something, and it sent her blood boiling to dangerous heights.

"Excuse me?" She turned around, her cheeks tinged scarlet in rage.

"Those filthy Muggles deserved it," he repeated through clenched teeth and hateful eyes. "You should've been killed with them, filthy Mudblood!"

He spat on her, and the spittle landed on her cheek. As she reached a shaking hand to wipe it away, her vision was filtered crimson. She saw red. Her mother's shrill screams were deafening. The memories from that night flooded back, and she saw those horrifying images with vicious clarity. The black cloaks, the knives, the blood, the pain…

She raised her wand. "_Avada Kedavra_."

A flash of green light erupted from the tip of her wand, and Flint crumpled to the ground, his face still contorted into a grimace of hate though his eyes were vacant. Something seemed to break within her, but she didn't care. She couldn't bring herself to care. The power that surged through her blood vessels was much more intoxicating, and she felt lightheaded. As she watched the lifeless heap on the ground, she almost had an urge to laugh. The feeling of euphoria was gratifying. She felt infallible.

The sounds and the images had stopped, but she walked back to her office in a daze, lightheaded and distant. She suddenly felt numb.

The law had let her down, so she needed to take Justice into her own hands. The others would pay for what they had done.

***

"What did you do, Hermione?"

Harry and Ron had barged into her flat, both wearing identical looks of shock and wariness.

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione innocently, putting down the heavy tome she was reading.

"Marcus Flint is dead," answered Harry.

"Oh?" She quirked an eyebrow.

"Did you have anything to do with it?" asked Ron bluntly and urgently, his eyes wide.

She watched them both intensely and slowly revealed a nearly imperceptible smile. "No," she said.

Harry frowned deeply. "You know the consequences of murder, don't you?" he asked calmly, though an edge of anger tinged his voice.

"Of course," she replied just as calmly.

As Hermione continued to gaze at them intensely, Harry's frown deepened. Finally, he said, "I won't be able to help you if I find out you killed him."

"I understand," she said, her voice unwavering.

His brows were furrowed as he watched her, as if he didn't even recognize her anymore. His expression looked pained as he left her flat, slamming the door behind him. Ron remained, watching her silently.

"Hermione…" Ron said at last, his voice full of pity and even a twinge of desperation. "Did you do it?"

She didn't answer, and her gaze fell back onto the old, yellowed pages of the heavy volume.

"Look at me," he said a little more firmly.

When Hermione raised her gaze, she was sure she saw a spark of fear in his blue eyes. Suddenly, she was reminded of the sheer power that flowed through her veins when she had first used the Unforgivables. Some residue of that power seemed to ignite within her when she saw his fear. She desperately wanted to feel that again.

"I know what happened to you was… horrible," he said quietly. "But it doesn't give you the right to… kill the scum who… you know…"

She leaned back against the back of her couch, crossed her arms, and tapped her foot restlessly. "I didn't say I killed him," she reiterated.

Ron looked unconvinced. Nevertheless, he sighed and raised his arms in surrender. "All right," he conceded. "What are you reading anyway?"

He looked over too quickly for her to hide the book.

"_DARK CURSES FOR THE MALEVOLENT_?" he shouted. "What are you _doing_, Hermione?"

"Light reading," she answered coldly as she removed the book from his sight.

"Light—? " he repeated incredulously.

Ron began pacing around her living room, waving his hands in the air and gaping like a fish. Finally, he stopped pacing in front of her and harshly rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Where did you get that from?" he asked, his gaze averted from her.

"Malfoy has an extensive library," she said icily.

"MALFOY? You went to see _Malfoy_?" By this time, Ron was yelling at the top of his lungs. "Is there something going on between you two? Did he turn you into—into… _this_?"

"Into _what_?" asked Hermione, glaring darkly.

Ron ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. He took several deep breaths. "Look," he began almost painfully. "I feel like I don't even know you anymore. If you think this new you is… better… and you want to fraternize with Malfoy… Maybe… maybe you should."

"What are you trying to say?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

He looked at her for a split second before quickly averting his gaze again. "Maybeweshouldbreakup," he mumbled.

For a long moment, Hermione was silent. Her blood pressure seemed to rise again as she watched him fidget, his hands in his pockets and his feet slowly inching toward the exit. She might as well end his agony.

"Get out," she snapped.

He quickly obeyed without another word.

***

The next morning, Montague and his brother were found dead and mutilated in their own home. When the Aurors had arrived to investigate the matter, the suspect had long fled, though the officials at the scene had many reasons to suspect the use of Dark magic. The brothers had been drained of blood while still alive, and the word "murderer" had been burnt onto their flesh in angry strokes.

"Do you think it was Hermione?" Ron asked hesitantly.

Harry did not answer as he watched the two ashen bodies soaked in blood. A chill ran down his spine.

That day, Hermione had not shown up for work.

***

She could feel his eyes boring holes through the back of her skull as she browsed through the towering shelves of books, reading the titles in excitement and fascination.

"See anything else you like?" he drawled, his voice slicing violently through the silence.

Hermione turned to face him. He was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. Locks of hair had fallen over his eyes, but his silver gaze lost none of their intensity.

"I can't decide," she said lightly, returning his piercing gaze.

He broke their eye contact after a few seconds and examined his fingernails. "Did you hear that Montague died a few days ago?" he asked nonchalantly, peeking at her furtively from behind blond locks.

"Hm… a tragedy," she said monotonously.

"Quite horrid, really," he said casually. "_Someone_ killed him using the _Nex Necis_ Curse. You should be familiar with it. I seem to recall that you borrowed that book from me. What a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Quite," she replied curtly.

"Do you, by any chance, know anything about this?" he asked.

"Remember our agreement, Malfoy?" she asked. "I get to borrow books from you with _no questions asked_."

"I'm just making small talk," he lied.

She scoffed and turned around, returning to the multitude of books. They had agreed that if Hermione were to pull some strings and cancel all future raids, he must open his library for her perusal at any time. She knew he was suspicious of her, but frankly, she did not care. To her relief, he seemed to understand that he needed to back off. Maybe that was the reason that she found herself spending increasingly more time in Malfoy Manor nowadays. She was grateful for the freedom she felt around him and for his lack of judgment. She hoped it would not change.

***

Miles Bletchley's scorched remains were found a week later, but the destroyed body was not and could not be identified for another week. The Aurors' official report suggested the use of Fiendfyre, and slowly, they began to see the links between the murders of the Montagues and Bletchley. It was concluded that the Dark wizard or witch behind these murders was progressing in knowledge of the Dark Arts because Fiendfyre was advanced Dark Magic and extremely difficult to control. Some even believed that a new Dark wizard was rising in their midst, and unrest and fear was mounting in the Wizarding community.

Meanwhile, Hermione found herself in Malfoy's entrance hall again.

"Granger," he said in greeting. She wondered why he looked so tired. "Back again? What would people say? How scandalous!" He attempted a smirk, but to Hermione, it looked very half-hearted.

"I need you to tell me where Theodore Nott is," she said with no preamble.

"Good morning to you too," he said wearily.

"Cut the crap, Malfoy," she stated harshly. "Tell me where that coward is."

"What makes you think I know?" he asked.

"I know he talks to you," she said. "Your guards told me."

Malfoy sighed, as if giving up.

"You have to do something for me if I tell you then," he said. "Quid pro quo… it's only fair."

"What else?" asked an irritated Hermione.

"Drop all charges against me, everything that was incurred during the war," he said firmly.

Hermione scoffed and said contemptuously, "Ever the self-preserver. And how, pray tell, do you propose I do _that_?"

"Lose a few pieces of key evidence here or there." He shrugged. "I trust you can think of something. Besides, I'm sure I'm not very high on their priority list. No one's going to notice or even care for a while."

"That's not very ethical, is it?" She raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. "Don't talk to me about ethics, especially after what you've done."

"And what exactly have I done?" Her voice was dripping venom.

His discomfort and reluctance to answer proved that the subject had become a taboo between them. She did not press the issue.

"Fine. Tell me where Nott is."

He licked his lips and hesitated.

"I can show you instead."

"Do you not _trust_ me?"

He was fidgeting and looking at everything but her. "You need to stop doing this," he said very seriously, and they both knew exactly what he meant.

"I will do whatever I want," she said, her tone menacing. "This is the justice they deserve. I'm only repaying the favor." She paused, and added suspiciously, "And why do you care what I do?"

He did not answer.

***

Tiny white snowflakes danced languidly down from the sky, adding to the pure white carpet on the forest floor and coating the naked branches of withering trees. Two lone figures, merely black dots on the vast canvas of the forest, trekked across the uneven ground with heavy footsteps. A small cabin stood in the short distance, quiet and unsuspecting. A third figure emerged by the cabin, walking towards its entrance. Suddenly, a shout echoed through the forest.

"Nott!" screamed Hermione as she ran toward the man by the cabin.

At the sound of his name, Theodore Nott froze in his tracks and watched the furious girl with wild hair and scarlet cheeks approach him, her wand drawn out in front of her. Abruptly, he turned and ran in the direction he had come, but he was not quick enough.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!"

A jet of bright red light slammed into his back, and Nott's body became as rigid as a plank of wood. He thudded to the ground. Hermione stalked to him with her wand still raised, a deep scowl etched unto her features. Her hatred consumed her whole. It was because of him that she was now an orphan. She wanted—no, needed, _craved_—retribution. She wanted to rip him apart limb by limb, to tear him to shreds, to dance to his screams of agony.

However, just as she was ready to cast the curse, she was tackled to the ground from behind and her wand flew out reach.

"Get off of me, Malfoy!" she yelled, trying to wiggle out but to no avail.

"No!" he said. "This ends here, now!"

"Then why did you bring me here?" she screamed in anger.

"Look at yourself, Granger!" he shouted. "Look at what you've become! I wanted you to see for yourself! I know that you've been grieving your parents' deaths, but this isn't the way to deal with that!"

"What could I have done?" Her eyes prickled. "You have no idea what it's like! Why the hell do you even care?"

Malfoy was breathing hard above her, and every puff of warm breath tickled the shell of her ear.

"You have no idea how important you are to the Wizarding World and the people," he said almost desperately. "You were a symbol of everything that is good. You gave people hope for a better and more peaceful future! People would look at you as someone they aspire to become! Do you not realize any of this?"

She stopped struggling and was silent.

"Do you even recognize yourself anymore?" he asked quietly. "I know you killed the Montagues and Bletchley. I know you killed Flint. You think you're delivering justice, but you're not any better than them. I thought you were stronger. We all did. Come back with me. Leave Nott alone."

Slowly, she nodded, and tentatively, Malfoy released her and helped her up.

"You still didn't tell me why you personally care," she said.

His pale cheeks were tinged pink, whether from the cold or from something else, Hermione did not know.

"I miss the old Hermione Granger," he said softly, "the annoying, self-righteous little know-it-all who never knew when to be quiet and mind her own business. I miss the stubborn Granger who preached some ridiculous idea about 'elf-rights' to the entire school, who always kept Pothead and the Weasel in check when they were ready to kill me, and who was brave enough to stand by her beliefs and even defy teachers. I miss the Granger who would fight with me and insult me, and I even miss that humiliating day when you slapped me. I wasn't brave enough to save you when my aunt was torturing you, but I'm trying now."

While he was talking, Hermione gradually began crying, and by the time he was finished, she was sobbing.

"What have I done?" she whispered as she sobered to the atrocities that she had committed, with her _own_ hands.

Those images flashed in her head, each more horrible than the last. She was shaking violently, but a pair of arms wrapped themselves around her, and she sobbed into Malfoy's shoulder. _I'm a monster. What have I done?_

She didn't even notice the sparks of green light that Malfoy shot into the sky, and she didn't notice teams of Aurors emerging from the woods. As she was taken away, all she could think of was that Draco Malfoy had been her unlikely savior.

***

When Draco Malfoy visits Hermione Granger again in Azkaban, he has the entire paperwork ready, and he is bursting to tell her the good news. The Wizengamot has granted her clemency, seeing the sincerity of her repentance and remorse. She will not receive the Dementor's Kiss and will be released from Azkaban in only a few more years. He is excited as he walks to her cell.

However, he stops when he sees her, frozen in shock and horror. She is swinging slightly, her feet dangling above the cold stone floor. He cannot bear to look up at her face. The tiny cot without its sheets is proof enough of what she had done. There is a small note by the metal bars, and he picks it up with shaking hands.

_D—_

_I can't bear it anymore. I'm sorry. I'm not strong enough._

_H_

He feels lightheaded, and slowly, he slides down the wall, crumbling the paper into a ball.

They say that committing murder splits the soul, and remorse repairs it at terrible agony. Perhaps, just maybe, she has been saved after all.

**End.**

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A/N:** Please review!


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